


Flowering

by brieflyshystarfish



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Swan Queen - Freeform, Swan Queen Week, Swan Queen Week Summer 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brieflyshystarfish/pseuds/brieflyshystarfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a tenderness is exchanged. And flowers. Magic talk. (Kisses.)</p><p>Written for SQ Week #7 (Summer 2016) prompt: Confessions</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowering

It happened at Granny’s.

Most love-type things did happen at Granny’s. Proposals, breakups, new lust ignited, old loves reignited. First dates and last dates. Everything in between. Including small things-–tiny things: a gaze, a sandwich?–-

Regina had been seated at the counter finishing her tea and fruit when Emma sidled up beside her. “Hey.”

“Emma,” Regina exhaled, pleased. “You startled me.” Then: “Are you working?”

“Yes…?”

“Are you … not sure if you’re working?”

“Yes. I mean, yes, I’m sure that I am working. But I left David at the office to take my lunch. And I looked in and I-–” Emma hesitated for a split second. Less. “I saw you in here.”

Regina looked up at Emma. “You saw me?”

“Yes.” And Emma looked back at Regina and sighed and smiled at the same time.

When Regina heard Emma say this-–this that should have meant–-and would have to anybody else, literally anybody else–-I saw my friend here and I wanted to come say hi to her-–what Regina also heard was the twitch in Emma’s voice, and what Regina felt because of that twitch, that infintesimal catch, was an interior earthquake that hit Regina’s body, closing up her throat and making it difficult to breathe, because she-–is this?

Unblinking, Regina slid off her stool to look at Emma, really look at Emma, who did not back up and who looked-–guarded, maybe, but certainly not afraid–-so they stood so close they breathed, for these five beats, the same air: and Regina’s stomach hurt. Why. And when Emma registered the intensity of Regina’s gaze-–an intensity that haunted her, had grown on her, and one which, frankly, she understood–-Emma had opened her mouth, found nothing to say, and promptly closed it again, allowing, in silence, Regina to search her eyes, holding her entirely in her open, wide gaze.

And what Regina found was that there was room there. In Emma. For–-holding.

Beats passed. Thudded. Neither turned away.

Regina felt, well, wonder: felt something inside of her unspool, felt small muscles inside of her uncoil. She wondered if those places had ever breathed or felt sun. No. She wondered nothing. She knew. Her eyes found Emma’s, whose eyes had locked back: stunning. Beautifully, and, a miracle: with the same hunger.

She knew, in that moment, with all of the warring intensity of her decades on this planet, that she was in love with Emma Swan, and that Emma Swan was in love with her.

It took a moment for the diner to swim back into focus. And when Regina let her gaze whip around her with barely disguised fear–-who has seen what I just did–-what I just saw–-and realized that nobody was paying them a goddamn bit of mind, she bit her lip, reached out briefly to touch Emma’s arm, Emma who looked as shocked and rueful and content as she must, Regina shook her head smiled lightly, retook her seat, and simply asked Emma, “What do you want for lunch?”

And Emma grinned and exhaled and did not stop grinning until she had to because she had to eat her sandwich.

And lunch was mostly normal. Mostly Regina heard but just barely Emma’s voice, the small stories of her morning, her annoyances and successes. With a fierceness that stunned her, and which she had to concentrate on to disown, all Regina wanted was to put her hands in Emma’s hair and kiss her and kiss her. So Regina held her own hands tight in her lap. She concentrated on Emma’s voice because looking at Emma would give her away. Too much. It’s too much. This worked. Until Emma tapped her leg, and said, “Earth to Regina.”

“I’m listening!”

“You’re a million miles away.” But Emma’s lips quirked, and she–she also looked a million miles away.

So Regina asked, “What time are you off tonight?”

“Eight or so,” Emma answered, her eyes flashing softly, and Regina’s breath hitched, because--my god–-all this undisguised love running there, in Emma, rivers and currents and storms. “Why?” Emma asked.

Now that she was looking at Emma again, Regina couldn’t stop. She lingered over her face. Her breath crashed lightly in her ribs. “Come over tonight. Henry’s at a friend’s house. I’ll make a late dinner. We can have it on the back porch. We can–-we can talk.”

“Of course,” Emma said, cheeks flushing and dropping her gaze. And now she was the one who couldn’t look up from her plate.

This is how it began.

_____

 

And this is how it was said.

Regina never smoked. Never ever. Not ever. Smoking–-was terrible. There are other vices, she supposed. Others. Saviors. Etc. 

So sometimes she lit things on fire just to smell them burn. Spindly pieces of wood riven by magic from trees. Even in her firemaking Regina was learning not to be a psychopath, not take more than what was offered to her, and she only took loose bark trees could afford to give. She had learned something useful about her magic, how that yes it could be used to dominate, but there was also a way it could be used to figure something out, feel if something was right for something else, not merely feel the opportunity of something and snatch it without care. She ached to show this to Emma. She would show this to Emma. She would show her everything, if Emma let her.

She asked the smell-good trees and bushes to give her their pieces, the dead pieces, and like magic–-by magic–-those pieces released themselves stacked in a small pile for her. She lit them one by one, burning to release their scent. Cypress she loved. Cedar. Pine.

She did this mostly when she was nervous.

She’d prepared a simple dinner. She lay out a cloth for them to sit on the back porch and lit a candle. She hadn’t meant for it to be romantic, and the fact of the candle made her nervous. She stubbed it out. Then she lit it again.

Regina had worn a short dress-–one she knew Emma had never seen on her. Gone were her regal colors, her mayoral or public self. This was a cream dress, light, cotton, a dotting of silk and lace on the back midsection and some detailing in the front. She knew she was sexy. Everybody in town knew about her sexiness. She wore it, part of the mask she existed in publicly. But for Emma, Regina wanted to be beautiful. Not princess-beautiful. Woman beautiful. And this beauty was personal–-shedded, intimate, hers. This was not about strength. Or: a different kind of strength. This was about opening something, revealing and laying bare a vulnerability. There were very few people she could afford to be beautiful for, ever. Daniel. Henry. For Emma, now. For Emma she wanted to lay down all of her armor.

And be seen.

The doorbell rang.

She rushed, shoes forgotten, to the door. Her stomach ached again, butterflies and spiders and what all making her feel so anxious. A child. She rolled her eyes at herself.

From the other side of the door: “Regina? It’s me.”

Regina opened the door to Emma, who turned a brightest and most nervous smile on her, shifting slightly on her feet. “Hey,” Regina said, stepping back to let her enter.

“Hey,” Emma said. In her hands she held flowers.

“Flowers, Miss Swan?”

This was enough for Emma now to roll her eyes, but it was gentle, gentle the way she pushed past Regina and kicked off her shoes and toed them back onto the mat beside the door, gentle the way she resisted Regina reaching towards the flowers and instead, smiling, head tilted a little to the side, and said, “I can take care of these if you show me where the vases are?”

And Emma trailed behind Regina, Regina acutely aware of how quiet the house was, no Henry to distract and ask and play and call out and yell at the TV because of that video game–no noise except their feet walking through the house.

Emma cleared her thoat, as if to intercept Regina’s thoughts, and Regina spun around.

“Regina, I–-” Emma’s gaze dropped over Regina’s body.

“Emma?” she prompted.

It came out in a rush. “Regina, I–-thank you for inviting me over. I’m sorry-–”

Regina stepped closer, feeling something well up in her. Something in her understood instinctively what was happening even if her mind hadn’t gotten there yet. “Emma, what’s wro–”

And Emma’s arms were around her, and Regina was stunned, stunned and frozen, until she felt the most minute hesitation and forced herself to relax and let Emma–just let her. And wound her arms around Emma’s waist. And let herself make a small moan–which she instantly regretted–completely lost in the sensory overload–Emma’s strength, the sinew and muscle and softness of her–how she smelled–and Regina’s face turned into Emma’s cheek, and she didn’t kiss her exactly, but she let her nose and lips touch Emma’s cheek and jaw, and she felt Emma tremble slightly, then exhale, and their bodies slipped even closer together.

They had never touched–like this. No. They had never touched like this before. It was still–it was still within bounds. It was.

And Regina–fool–wanted to cry. Did not. Absolutely not.

So when Emma pulled back, when Regina accomodated her, reluctantly, dizzy, afraid to speak for what she might say, she sucked her breath in when she saw Emma’s eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Emma! Don’t cry!”

Emma laughed, a low, husky sound Regina hadn’t heard from her, ever. “Maybe I’m hungry,” Emma offered, a watery smile on her lips.

“Mmm.” Regina handed her a vase. And took her–what–by the wrist, leading Emma now into the kitchen.

At the sink, Emma ran the water and pulled a knife out. She cut the stems under hot water. She filled the vase with cool water. She fished a penny out of her pocket. Regina raised an eyebrow.

Emma said, “Palm out.”

Regina extended her palm. Into her palm the penny went.

“Make a wish, Regina.”

She did. And off her palm and into the vase slid the penny.

When she looked up, Emma was grinning expectantly at her. “What’d you wish for?”

Regina quirked an eyebrow up at her. “Dinner. Come on.”

____

They ate in relative silence, Emma appreciative and hungry, Regina content to eat a little and watch Emma eat a lot. She loved–loved?–how strong Emma was, how lithe, how extraodinarily centered in her own body, how she carried herself–and she tore her eyes away when Emma raised a questioning look and then smiled, pleased, maybe knowing that Regina was glowing. For her.

The flowers, Regina saw, once sitting on the porch between them, were extraordinary: blooms littered the thin stems of the flowers with translucent edges, bright as scarlet and fading into indigo; the light and night and candle filled them with color, and the fragrance was gorgeous, somewhere between jasmine and tuberose. Small white flowers on thick stalks expanded out and smelled like apples, like cinnamon. “What are these all?”

Emma blushed. “Well. I don’t know their names. I imagined them.”

Regina gaped: at Emma first, then at the flowers. “You magicked them? Up from your imagination?”

“Yeah,” Emma said, casting her eyes down. “I wanted them to be special. I wanted–I wanted you to know–” she cut herself off. “Just look.” Emma reached for a white petal and it came off easily into her hand. She offered it to Regina. “Taste it.”

Regina’s eyes lit up. “These taste exactly like my pie.” Then her eyes narrowed. “How on earth-–”

“Relax,” Emma grinned. “I paid attention to the taste the last time I was here. And … it’s just been a little boring at work.”

“You did this today? I just saw you–this must’ve taken–”

Emma’s eyes met Regina’s, and her voice was careful, soft, as if not to startle. “I’ve been working on this for a little while.”

“You are incredible,” Regina murmured, feeling a low hum in her chest, a warmth, reaching out to touch a dark petal. “And these?”

“These are a little different,” Emma said, reaching to pull off the petal. Out wafted a scent, and Regina was taken–-  
–down a winding path, the smell of the well, the scent of the iron as she held it up to the Dark Swan, commanding her to speak–and the love–the love?–-in the Dark-–in Emma’s eyes.

The scent and its memory faded as soon as she felt it, and she put her hand on her heart, which of couse was thudding, but all she said was: “Emma, you are deflowering my flowers.”

Emma barked out a short laugh.

The world shrank again, small enough and large enough for both of them.

Regina broke the silence first, the lingering questioning and wanting that had had them from earlier in the day. “That memory–-Are they all like that? What are they?”

Emma was silent, and studiously avoiding her eyes, but Regina knew she understood the question.

“Emma.”

“Regina.”

“Emma.”

“Re-”

“No, you don’t,” Regina growled.

“They say memory is connected to scent,” Emma began. Her hands twisted in her lap. She fell silent.

Regina reached across the small gulf between them and touched Emma’s hands. Electricity–not magic–shot through both of them and while Emma shifted and looked up sharply at Regina, Regina only exhaled deeply. She moved closer, if possible, to Emma.

She did not want Emma to be scared.

She–Regina–also, deeply, in the pit of her stomach, in the marrow of her bones, she knew what was coming. It has been years coming. This. And she knew damn well what–-“Memory is scent,” Regina supplied, gravely, tenderly, looking up at Emma’s outline in the night.

“Yes. Memory is–these are ours,” Emma said. “These are ours. This is all of how–we have been. This is-–” and her words were coming forth faster now, issued shakily, her voice rough, “Regina, this is how I love you, this is how I love you. Here. These memories. These moments. I gathered them–I wanted to give you a way to see that wasn’t-–”

Regina bridged the distance between her body and Emma’s in three seconds, surprising both of them, straddling Emma’s lap neatly, lifting their hands momentarily and bringing them together between them. She leaned her forehead against Emma’s, and whispered, “You are my heart, Emma. All I want is this–-You,” she choked out, somewhere between a sob and an exhale, and she knew she was being too much, she was too intense, too much–

And Emma’s breath caught, and Regina pulled back just far enough through her own glistening eyes–this is what it is to love and be loved–and Emma asked, in a small voice, wonderingly, “Regina?”

When Regina bent down to kiss her, that’s where the world began.

Their mouths were heated before they started, and Regina bit back her own shiver as her mouth closed over Emma’s, sinking again as earlier into her body while Emma eagerly wrapped her arms around Regina again. Regina felt still inside, her heart an ecosystem thudding and wanting and crashing inside of her, her entire self poised on a yearning for Emma that was growing stronger as their lips opened and tongues met, as the warmth in them collided and grew. They kissed and they kissed until the candle burnt down to her wick and their legs went numb and they kissed until Emma lifted Regina-–who, surprised, didn’t break contact-–and set her back down onto Emma’s lap, legs crossed now, and Regina bit back a sob, because for every lover she had ever had nobody had ever carried her weight–literally carried her, even like this–-and she pulled away to look at Emma, and she knew that her look was feral, and that she wanted to make love to her and not stop, never stop, no. “Emma,” Regina breathed. “I love you.”

Behind her, the stem in the vase grew roots, and a new, shiny leaf popped from its bud.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This is my first fic. I will make more. Making these makes me happy. Write thoughts please!


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